


together

by v3ilfire



Series: i fought the war, but the war won [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, also some angst, idk man i got yelled at
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hawke. Stay with me."<br/>She chuckled against his shoulder.<br/>"I'm not dead yet. You're very handsome when you fret, you know."<br/>"You've been saying that a lot."<br/>"You've been worrying a lot."<br/>"You've been getting hurt a lot."<br/>"Point taken."</p>
            </blockquote>





	together

The door came down with a sickening crash, and the steps of the men who ran in were weighed down by full plate, barely hidden in the almost-pitch-black. Fenris laid perfectly still as the Templars surrounded them, fully aware of the Champion’s arm draped over his chest and her head on his shoulder, of her grip on the knife under their pillow. His eyes remained closed, but her breath changed on his collarbone – her eyes were darting around, already adjusted to the darkness. Barely a sliver of moonlight from the boarded up window acted as her guide, only just enough to catch the edge of breastplate after breastplate surrounding their bed.

“You’re under arrest, Hawke,” said one voice, surprisingly civil for someone who had just broken down the door of a peacefully slumbering couple of refugees.  
“It’s time for you to pay for the chantry in Kirkwall,” came the other, to make up for it. 

Fenris’s breath stilled. Nobody else in the room moved while Hawke peeled herself from the elf, the blankets around her dropping to reveal that she was a breastplate short of sleeping in full armor.  
“Well, that’s just fucking _rude_.”

Fenris felt her fingers tap twice on his wrist and he launched himself out of bed, his feet hitting the floor at the same time the dagger in Hawke’s grip slid itself into a Templar’s skull. There were eight men in total – more than usual, but then again, they hadn’t been attacked in the dead of night in a while, and definitely not by the Order. He heard the crack of another’s neck as he pierced a second with his sword (“I told you to keep it by the nightstand,” Hawke would tease later, “Harder to get it from under the bed without looking like an ass in the middle of an ambush.” She’d be right.). The third fell to the hilt of his blade crashing through his skull with perhaps a teeny bit more force than he intended, and judging by the gurgling sound from behind him, Hesta got to her blades just fine.

Three more fell in record time, one still struggling for breath as Hawke jerked him up by his collar.  
“Fenris,” she called, “a little help.”  
The elf crossed over all the corpses, his eyes gleaming green-gold in the dark. The Templar gasped as the elf’s body lit the room, illuminating all but the Champion’s face blue from behind her.

“Talk or he rips your heart out.”  
“Th-there are more outside, waiting to corner you.”  
“How many?”  
“I-I don’t know. More than a dozen.” 

In a better time, Hesta would roll her eyes. Instead, she cursed.

“Who sent you?”  
“We don't – “  
“ _Who_ sent you?”  
“W-we’re not even Templars, we stole the plate off some corpses – there wasn’t enough for the others so they stayed outside.” 

Hesta turned her head and glanced at the rest of the fallen bodies around her. His testimony made sense – in the light, the armor had puncture wounds and dents that she was sure she didn’t leave. She turned her head back to the man shaking in her grip, and before he knew what was happening, broke his neck.

Fenris’s lyrium dimmed once more and he watched the woman cross the pile of bodies to the rest of her armor, watched her slide her breastplate over her head and strap on her gauntlets in silence. He followed suit. They were getting good at doing this in the pitch-black.  
“Were you hurt?”  
“Just some scratches,” she whispered back. “You?”  
“The same.” 

She threw her hair up, slid her daggers into their sheaths, and made for the door. Fenris grabbed his cloak, but upon looking around, couldn’t seem to find hers.  
“Your cloak, Hawke?”  
“Otherwise occupied,” she sighed, and pointed down to a body. What was left of the garment was wrapped around a man’s head, twisted unnaturally to the side. “Did you know those are good for blinding people with pointy things?”  
“Then take mine,” he said as he crossed to her. Hesta stopped his hands before they could undo the tie around his neck.  
“No. They’re after me, not you. Stay hidden and I’ll distract them – I’ll meet you at the west gate in half an hour. Deal?”  
“What? No. You’ll -”   
“Take on a bunch of thugs just fine. I’ve done worse with less.” 

Fenris didn’t agree, but he knew she wouldn’t give him a choice, and with over a dozen armed men waiting for them outside, arguing was futile and time was of the essence.

“Half an hour,” he repeated, and she smiled and pressed her lips to his and ran off into the dark.

He could hear the sounds of the pursuit outside just seconds later.  
“Oy, there she is!”  
Hawke’s footsteps raced over his head – she had taken the roof. A safe bet, when so outnumbered, but the thought wasn’t enough to soothe his nerves. 

As per their usual routine, Fenris let three minutes pass in stillness before checking the window. He was able to drop into the alleyway undisturbed, the weight of his sword and their belongings pressing against his back as he landed. As promised, he headed west, keeping track of each minute as it passed.

By his judgement, upon his arrival at the gates Hawke had ten more minutes before her half-hour was up. Fenris paced, his bare feet only near silent in the dewy grass. One minute went, then three. Excruciating. He kept repeating her instructions to himself, repeating that they came from experience, of months of running and being ambushed, of sleeping in armor when the innkeepers gave them funny looks or when their campfire was too far from a village. _Go to our meeting place, stay put, and wait for me,_ was always the plan. _I’ll come. Remember I love you and don’t do anything stupid._

Ironic, coming from the woman who would often take the bulk of the bandits, of the Templars, of whatever was hunting them. He noticed she started telling him she loved him more since being on the run - he always knew it, but she barely ever said it - and part of him knew it was because she constantly feared it being the last time. He didn’t tell her how it frightened him.

Eight minutes, and it was too quiet.

She’d yell at him later, but at least he’d know she was safe. Fenris darted back into town, scanning the rooftops, the alleyways, the stoops until he saw a body. A common bandit, as it was, just common enough to think stealing Templar armor was a good idea. He saw the foot of a second not too far down the road, the rest of him hidden by brick, and so was able to follow the trail of corpses to the south.

He heard her before he saw her, the crunch of body-meets-ground as she kicked one of the last two bandits off the roof. There was only one left, but her foot caught on something and she turned too slow and his breath stopped in his throat - it was impossible to tell where the blade went, but she was holding her side. The bandit stepped back, clearly proud of being the one to injure the Champion, but also not expecting a blade to the head.

By the time he reached the roof, Hesta was leaning against the chimney, blood leaking from between her fingers while she caught her breath.   
“Am I late?”  
“Yes,” he said, and knelt down next to her. She moved her hand away for him to examine the wound - nothing deep, she’d be fine, thank the Maker - and he sighed. She smiled at him, reaching her blood-free hand to clear his hair away from his face.   
“You are quite so handsome when you worry.” Fenris rolled his eyes, and she chuckled.  
“Alright, stop brooding and help me up.”  
“I am not brooding.”  
“Whatever you say. Grab a cloak off one of the bodies, too.”

They made it out of the village just fine, but Hesta’s breathing became no less ragged as they slowed their pace. In fact, he’d wager she looked worse. Her face had a sickly sheen to it and he wondered how she could ever look paler than normal, almost glowing white in the dark.  
"Hawke, let me see that wound."  
"It's poisoned," she said matter-of-factly, as if she were describing no more than the shape of a bruise. "If I sit down, I'm not getting back up." The color drained from Fenris's face and he slid himself underneath her arm, taking the brunt of the woman's weight. And she let him. "It's not far to the next village. We'll find a medic, pay them off, and probably move on by morning. I'll be fine," she assured him. "I got carved out by an Arishok a few years ago. This is a scratch. A scratch that burns, but... a scratch."  
"Do you ever rest your mouth?"  
"Are you trying to set yourself up for a dirty joke, or am I that far gone?"  
"I wouldn't be surprised if I just started walking into them now."

She laughed, and quickly found out how much that hurt.

By the time they reached the village, she barely had enough breath to walk, let alone make jokes - and still, she refused to let Fenris carry her ("I'm not a damsel in distress, I'm a fugitive with a neat scar-to-be."). Finding the healer wasn't the hard part, thankfully - but figuring out how to approach them was. The pair stared at the door, at the sign posted above it, the herbs hung in the window.

Hesta peeled herself from the elf, stumbling back onto her own two legs.  
"I'll go," she said. "If you hear a scuffle, it went poorly. You know the signal to come in."  
Fenris shook his head. She had always been more than a little reckless, but going in alone, injured, while hunted? It was a risk he couldn’t watch her take.  
"You’re hurt. I refuse to let you do this."  
"Exactly, I’m hurt, so I'll get the most sympathy points."  
"Hawke."  
"Fenris, please. The less we bicker about it, the faster this will be over with. Besides, do you really think a glowing, angry elf will get better results than this pathetic mess? Come on.”

They stared at one another until Fenris stepped back, allowing Hawke to hobble towards the door. The woman was infuriatingly stubborn, wasting her own possibly very limited time (the thought of which made him sick) just to be right, to get her way, to protect him. And he wasn’t even the one in need of protection.  

Inside, Hesta was unsurprised to have a bell announce her arrival. Her hand went to her side again and she groaned, another wave of pain surging through her, going deeper with the poison. She was thankful that the thugs went with the cheap stuff - anything of any actual quality would have brought her down already, bleeding and coughing in the snow. She wondered if the poison passed through Martin's hands at any point - an irony really worthy of Varric’s book. She’d have to write him to include it.

Her musing was interrupted by a girl no older than 15 who ran out, wiping her hands on her apron.  
"Hell-- oh, Maker's breath! Stay right there! Mother!"

She ran back inside only to be replaced by a far more rotund woman, her mouth so embedded in frown lines Hesta was afraid she'd scold her for dragging mud into the parlor of her clinic. The medic gave her a once-over, and without so much as a word, lifted a fire poker from the urn next to her and pointed it right at the Champion.  
"Give me three reasons I shouldn't scream for the guard right now, Champion."

Hesta could laugh at the sheer chance of meeting a Nevarran in northern Ferelden. The woman’s accent only added to her larger-than-life matronly aura, but perhaps this was not the time to point out such circumstances.  
"Well, for one, that wouldn't be very medic-like or benevolent of you. Two, you could probably finish me off with that fire poker right now if you tried, and three? Three. Well. Three is that I'll pay well for your service and discretion and be out of your hair as soon as I can walk. Bonus: I'm charming and a very experienced patient."

The woman was clearly not impressed, but after a long, tense silence, her daughter piped up from behind her.  
"Mother, she's hurt, badly."  
"I don't need you to tell me that. I can see a dying woman when she's standing in front of me. And bleeding on my floor, oy.”  
"That's a great point," Hesta interjected. "I would quite like not to die."

The medic watched her, then shouted something in her native tongue - a curse, judging by the tone - and threw the poker back in its place.  
"Alright. I need all of your weapons on that table. Karin, help her. Are you alone?"

Hesta let the young girl help her hobble over to a table, and began stripping herself of all her knives and daggers and smoke bombs. Karin grew increasingly wide-eyed at the sheer amount of weapons one person could carry - daggers hidden in sleeves, in boots, throwing knives in pouches, potions, poisons, bombs - a true walking armory.  
  
"No. I have a friend outside. If you click the lock twice, he'll know it's safe."  
"Is he safe?"  
"He's a good man. He won't hurt you."

The medic grunted towards the door, and her daughter scurried over to click the lock twice, as instructed. If Hesta didn’t know any better, she'd think that the child was enjoying the thrill of it all.

Fenris entered in a flurry and made a beeline towards Hawke before she could even think to ask.  
"Weapons," the medic grumbled, "him, too. Especially that sword."  
Hesta nodded, and Fenris began to place his weapons next to hers, metal clashing to the tune of, "Maker, what did I get myself into?" and the clatter of poultice pots and potions.

"Armor," was the medic's next command. "I need to get at that wound."

Hesta began to reach for her clasps, but her hands were too shaky, too unstable, her breath too ragged and vision starting to swim. Fenris moved her hands aside and began to work at the ties, placing each piece on the table next to all her other belongings. She leaned her forehead on his shoulder and her fever became immediately apparent to him.

"Hawke. Stay with me."  
She chuckled against his shoulder.  
"I'm not dead yet. You're very handsome when you fret, you know."  
"You've been saying that a lot."  
"You've been worrying a lot."  
"You've been getting hurt a lot."  
"Point taken."

Fenris had finally worked her leathers off of her, leaving only a bloodied tunic, and lifted the woman right up, looking for the medic for further instruction. She grunted and gestured towards a back room, where the younger girl had already prepped the bed and her mother's workbench. Hesta breathed a little easier once she was off her feet, though Fenris couldn't take the shivering as a good sign.

"Is she almost ready?"  
"Hush, Fenris. I'm fine."  
"You're getting worse by the minute."  
"Move aside," the medic said as she blazed past, and Fenris obliged. “Karin, get him back in the parlor.”

Karin nodded, and nudged Fenris towards the door with a quiet, “Let’s go.” Fenris caught one last glance of Hawke before she slipped out of sight, and the woman had the audacity to wink. He didn’t know whether to smile or scold her.

In the parlor, Karin bustled about, sometimes running things into the room at her mother’s call. Fenris listened, and what little he knew about healing made sense to him - elfroot, mint, the occasional bit of dawn lotus or rashvine. Once, Karin even ran honey in, and how like Hawke to need honey for her medicine, even in her state. Eventually, though, it all went quiet, and Karin was left wiping down the counters and washing dishes. Fenris saw her glance at him every once in a while, examining his markings, looking at his hair, his posture. The fact that an elf was sitting in her parlor seemed baffling enough, let alone that he came with the Champion of Kirkwall, bleeding and poisoned in the dead of night.

“Can I ask about your markings?” she said. Fenris was almost glad for the interruption - his thoughts had begun to race to rather unpleasant places. Karin picked up on this, and threw a glance at the door. “My mother’s very talented. She’s treated worse before. I wouldn’t worry.” Fenris looked at the floor a moment, and then back at the girl.  
“What would you like to know?”  
“They’re not… ink, are they?”  
“No,” he sighed. “They’re lyrium.”

The girl gaped at him, nearly forgetting herself.  
“Do they… do anything? Like magic?”

Fenris lifted a hand and let it phase out of the physical, much to the girl’s delight. She nearly ran over, hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron.

“Maker, that’s amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it.”  
The blue light dimmed once more, and the elf set his hand back down.  
“I hope you never see anything like it again.”   
His tone ended Karin’s questioning then and there. She cleared her throat instead, and quickly returned to working. The quiet didn’t last long, however.

“So… is everything they say about the Champion true?”   
“What do they say? We’ve heard a lot of things in the last few months.”  
“We heard she started the mage rebellion. That she blew up the chantry with that mage.”

Fenris remembered the explosion far too well, as well as its aftermath. The scrambling, the planning, ripping a sobbing Bethany away from her sister and handing her to Donnic, then Aveline and Merrill and Varric waving goodbye at the docks, fretting about Exalted Marches and Starkhaven armies.

“No,” he said, and only when Karin’s shoulders eased did he realize that she did not want that rumor to be true. “She tried to stop it. Anders was too far gone even for her to save.”  
  
Karin looked like she had more, but Hesta’s scream tore through the room. Fenris stood up, ready to bolt into the back, but the young girl beat him to the punch. “Maker’s sagging tits!” came right before another of the medic’s foreign curses, and then it became quiet again. Almost too quiet. Fenris was about to move for the door when Karin scuttled back out, grinning.   
“Mother may have forgotten to warn the Champion that the poultice she uses to disinfect is… potent.”

Fenris collapsed back in the chair, not quite realizing just how tired he was until that moment.  
“I’m sure she deserved it,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.  
“She asked me to pass on a message.”  
“Did she?”  
“Yep. She said, ‘tell him he’s not allowed to brood where I can’t flatter him back into a good mood.’ She started saying something else, but then mother scolded her for talking.”  
“Did she listen?”  
“Yes.”

Fenris chuckled as he settled back in his chair again.   
“It seems I have things to learn from your mother.”  

Karin giggled, knowing full well the extent of her mother’s matronly strength. She’d seen full-grown thugs scolded into submission before - it was no surprise that the Champion of Kirkwall did the same.

* * *

 

Fenris had fallen asleep against the wall when the medic shook him by the shoulder.

“I can’t have you sleeping in my parlor, boy. Not when you look that conspicuous. Grab all your things and go to the back room. She’s sleeping now. She’ll probably sleep through most of tomorrow - thank the Maker. What a mouth on that woman, ay. Charming, my ass.”

If she was swearing, she was certainly doing better. Fenris did as he was told - gathering all their weapons and armor and their bags, and moved them into the back room where Hesta was reduced to a pile of blankets. After he was finished, he sighed and stripped himself of his own armor, laying it by his sword, and went to sit on the edge of the bed. Hesta groaned as she rolled over, laying her head on his thigh and letting her arm drape haphazardly over his legs.  
“Hey,” she mumbled.

He didn’t realize how bad Hesta had looked until she looked even just slightly better. She was still pale, but some of the color had come back to her cheeks, and the fever subsided significantly. The medic had cleaned the blood off her face and hands, leaving the woman in a clean if slightly-too-big shirt.  
“How’s your wound?”  
“Sore, like my pride.”  
“May I?”

She nodded, and Fenris lifted her shirt just enough to catch sight of the bandages - fresh and neatly wrapped, smelling of honey and elfroot and mint.

“She did well. I was worried.”  
“That would be why you look so lovely right now,” she said, trailing into a yawn at the end. Fenris shook his head, and some rearranging later, both of them ended up under the covers.  
“Sleep,” he said. “You’ll need it.”  
Hesta made some agreeable noise, but he knew his instruction wasn’t even necessary. Her breathing already slowed to a restful pace. He followed soon after, thankfully too tired to dream.

  
Fenris woke in the dead of night, alone in the bed. His heart thrummed in his chest as he leapt to his feet, looking around for any sign of his Champion. He bolted out of the room, but he didn’t have to go far. The next room over was lit by lamp and the door was open - and there she was - sitting in front of the medic, her shirt hiked up to her ribcage as the older woman worked to undo the bandages. She eyed the elf in the doorway, and snorted.  
“Well, don’t just hover looking like some ghost. Come sit. Hope you don’t get queasy easily.”

Hesta laughed at the thought, but was interrupted by a pained hiss. The bandages came off her wound, and with it, took a lot of the ointment and layers of congealed blood.

“Ah, yes, come join my re-wrapping party. I feel like a present. And Petra’s lovely company.”  
“This is gonna hurt again,” the medic warned. “Try not to scream.”   
“Am I allowed to curse?”  
“If you must.”  
“Would you feel more comfortable if it was in Tevene?”

That finally got a laugh out of the medic. Hesta turned to smirk at Fenris, clearly gloating.

“You know Tevene?”   
“No, but he does.”  
“You ready?”  
“Never.”

The woman pressed a cloth to Hesta’s side, and her eyes widened immediately. She began gesturing frantically to Fenris, waving her hand in little circles, trying to encourage him to do something. Fenris only stared back at her until she managed to get enough wits about her to articulate with words. “Say something!”

Fenris blinked, and it took him a second to realize what she meant. The first curses spilled out of him awkwardly, a bumbling line of causeless profanity.   
“Oh, put some back into it!” she hissed, and so until her arm finally flopped to her side and she took a deep gulp of air, Fenris tried. The medic was chuckling as she re-applied the ointment to the cleaned wound - it was a sickly yellow where it wasn’t still red and purple and looking far from healthy.  
“I swear to Andraste’s ashes, I’ve never seen anything like you two.”

Hesta snorted.  
“I won’t ask you to elaborate.”   
“Good, because it’s nothing complimentary.”  
The rogue laughed.  
“Maker, you’re a gift. What I wouldn’t have given to have you in Kirkwall.”  
“No offense, Champion, but I’m rather glad I stayed away from that heaping pile of combustible waste. No matter how charming and valiant its heroes may claim to be.”

Petra was only halfway done with re-wrapping when her daughter ran into the room, followed shortly by a thumping on the front door.  
"Guards, mother."  
"Alright, Fenris, let's go," Hesta said, but as she made to slide off the table, Petra's hand stopped her.  
"We're already in this deep, and I won’t have you wasting my work and supplies just to end up dead in an alley tonight. Karin, you know what to do."

The girl nodded and moved aside for her mother to pass, then moved to Hesta and extended a hand to the weary Champion.

"Fenris, I need you to gather all your weapons and armor and stash it underneath the table in the other room, under the tablecloth. Miss Champion--"  
"Just Hawke is fine," Hesta interrupted.  
"Hawke... this isn't going to be comfortable. And you’ll have to be quiet.”

Fenris ran to do as he was told, moving silently in between the rooms, catching bits and pieces of conversation in the parlor, clips of a man’s gruff voice and Petra’s sharp responses. By the time he returned to Karin, he was fully armed, the rest of their weapons stashed in the designated spot. The girl appeared alone in the room, and met Fenris’s quizzical look with a grin.

"Hawke," was all she said, and Hesta flashed a thumbs-up from underneath the bed.  
"It's surprisingly clean down here!"  
"Thank you," Karin said with pride. "As for you, there’s a little surprise. She can’t stay standing, so she has to be down there, but you can.”  
She bounced over and nudged a panel in the wall, soon prying a whole section off.  
“We keep rare herbs in here. It smells a little strong, particularly the Vandal Aria, but it’ll keep you hidden.”  
Fenris nodded, and stashed himself in the cupboard.

Karin shut the panel behind the elf just as Petra called from the other room.  
“Karin! Come show the guardsman around.”  
  
Both Hesta and Fenris listened from their respective hiding places - judging by the voices, it was only three guards, four at most. They moved through the parlor, digging through cabinets and under the counter, then made it to room adjacent to the pair.  
“Go check out upstairs while I look in here,” one of the men called. Two pairs of boots ascended the steps to Petra and Karin’s apartment, but Hesta could see the third from her spot underneath the bed.

Karin followed him in - Hesta was actually impressed by how calm the girl was about the whole thing. Maybe she _was_ enjoying it.  
“This is the second treatment room.”  
“Smells like mint in here,” the man commented.  
“We just had a patient earlier today. Nasty bit of rashvine poisoning.”

Hesta held her breath, watching the guards' boots stop just inches from her face. He paced about the room slowly, checking each corner, behind the curtains. He finally stopped on the opposite side of the room, close to the panel behind which Fenris was hiding.

"Anything under the bed?"  
"Dust, sir."  
"Hm. You sure?"  
"Yes, sir."

Hesta's eyes widened as she saw the wall behind the guard-captain begin to warp, the shadow of Fenris's gauntlet emerging from it.

"Captain! All clear."

The gauntlet vanished back into the wall as the man left the room, leaving Karin with a nod. Hesta listened to his apologies and excuses and Petra's cool responses all the way through until the door clicked and the older woman hobbled through the door with her own all-clear. Fenris emerged from behind the panel as Karin pulled Hesta from underneath the bed and helped her sit atop it again.  
"Everyone good?" Petra asked. Fenris nodded as he stripped of his armor once more, but Hesta held her side, scowling.  
"Can we have a moment alone, please?"

The medic looked between Fenris and the Champion, and quickly pushed her daughter out the door.  
“I’ll see you both tomorrow. Upstairs, Karin.”

The door shut behind them. Hesta crossed her arms sternly, her eyes narrowed in Fenris’s direction.

“Hawke - “  
“What were you thinking?”  
“He was going to find you.”  
“No, he wasn’t. He didn’t. And he wouldn’t have if we stuck to the plan. Or was Karin supposed to somehow explain to the other two guards how their friend was suddenly missing his heart?” Fenris scowled right back at her. It had been a long enough night for them both, much of it caused by Hawke’s utterly inconceivable stubborn streak.  
“I could have dealt with them all.”  
“And then what of Petra and Karin? What of them? Just leave them with the bodies? Or are we supposed to sneak around and dispose of them before sunrise?”  
“And what would have happened if he found you?”  
“I don’t know! We’d wing it, see what happened? Maybe let them take me and then bust me out? We’re supposed to be discreet, Fenris! We’re supposed to just keep moving until the threat of a March is over.”  
“I am _supposed_ to protect you.”

Hesta started to hop off the bed, but Fenris quickly put his hands on her shoulders to stop it. Exasperated, Hesta knocked them off, and instead grabbed his arm to pull herself to her feet. “You’re still hurt.”  
“Stop.”

She rose with a hiss. Fenris put his hand on her waist to steady her, though with little success. As soon as she had even the semblance of stability, Hesta took his face in her hands and brought it closer to hers, the anger in her expression replaced by sheer fear, and pain. Even in the dim lamplight, he could make out the tears pooling over her lashes. “Stop it, Fenris. Stop. I can’t lose you, too. You have to be careful. You need to understand why I have to do this, why I have to take the brunt of this.”  
“I won’t let them take you.”   
“Yeah, well, you might have to. They’re looking for me. This is my fault, Fenris. I’m the closest thing that city had to a Viscount, and I failed to protect it. And now what? Attacks from Starkhaven, a mage rebellion, an exalted march. If I die, it’ll be a long time coming. You’ve just gotten started and I refuse to let you give your life up for me.”  
Fenris grabbed her by the shoulders, nearly knocking the woman off her feet, his voice barely more than a growl.  
“This is Anders’ doing, not yours. Stop atoning for that abomination’s mistakes.”

Hesta sighed, dropping her hands to his shoulders, her thumbs running gentle circles at the base of his neck. She looked so tired, so worn out. Beat. Defeated. The list could go on and on and on, searing more and more scars into what was left of her. 

“I don’t want to fight. But I need you to understand that giving up your safety and your life for mine is out of the question. That isn’t the way.”  
Fenris stared at her with his trademark scowl, thinking, until her face inexplicably broke into a grin.  
“I have told you recently how handsome you are when you’re cross with me, right?”  
“Fasta vass, woman. To bed, now.”

Hesta laughed as he eased her back down onto the bed. She watched him strip down a second time that night and squirm into the covers with her. They got settled as they usually did, but Fenris felt her grip tighten on him. She was holding onto him, like he’d vanish at any moment, like he’d run off in the middle of the night and do something incomprehensibly impulsive, though that was usually her area of expertise.

Her hold didn’t weaken as she drifted off to sleep.

Petra was quite right about one thing - Hesta slept through most of the next day, and the next few days following, waking only to eat and wash up and stretch her legs. The guards did not bother them again, though each day Petra had some new story of them bothering a neighbor or a shopkeep down the street. It was three days later that Fenris woke to an empty bed once more. Panicked, he rose, and checked the other patient rooms and the parlor to no avail. He was ready to search the whole village when Karin came from upstairs, smiling and yawning.  
“Good morning.”  
“Where is Hawke?”  
“Oh, mother took her to my uncle’s farm. Said she needed the air and the exercise.”  
“Is that safe?”   
“Oh, yeah, it’s not far. And they covered her up. Would you like me to take you?”  
“Please.”

Karin wasn’t lying - the farm wasn’t far, which wasn’t surprising considering the size of the village. Fenris had thrown on his cloak and scarf and followed the girl down the dirt path to the farmhold, which announced itself with the smell of manure and the clucking of chickens.

“Get her!”  
Fenris’s heart dropped deep into his stomach, the image of templars chasing Hawke far too fresh in his mind, but he was greeted instead by a chicken running past him, far faster than he expected. The fowl was followed by Hawke herself, looking far better than the past days, jogging briskly and gaining on the bird with every second.  
“Morning Fenris,” she said as she passed him, dressed in a beige tunic tucked into loose trousers, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. And then, out of nowhere, broke into a dead sprint and tackled the bird, curling her entire torso around the clucking monstrosity. She held it up into the air before it could peck at her face to the sound of cheering coming from the nearby barn. Karin’s uncle and several of her cousins ran out to help the Champion to her feet and regain custody of their crankiest chicken.

She met Fenris’s confused stare with a laugh.

“What? Did you forget I grew up on a farm?” As a matter of fact, he had. Completely.  
“... Yes.”  
“Oy, Champion! She’s loose again!”  
“And that, my darling, is my cue. I’ll be back.”

Fenris watched her run off again, occupied by memories of a girl fresh from Lothering, dragging him up and down lowtown and getting them all into trouble. He was eventually conned into helping the farmers move haystacks, each of them impressed by the elf’s brute strength. Hesta watched him from the barn with a grin, picking feathers from her hair, when Petra approached.  
“You and that boy are something else, Champion.”  
“So I’ve been told.”  
“He’s barely left your side. He wouldn’t at all, if Karin didn’t pry him to help us around the clinic.”

Hesta snorted, having expected little else from her overprotective companion. She would, after all, do the same for him. The two women were silent for a short time. Petra was the first to break it, again.

“I fear for you two, Hawke. That boy will die for you. And you’re not exactly in a position to guarantee your own safety. You managed to escape the Blight, but Karin and I were here for it. I’ve comforted more than enough people who lost their love to foolishness. Just something to think about,” she said, and turned to move back to the farmhold.

Hesta watched Fenris work, trying to ignore the tightness in her stomach. She knew what the right thing to do was - was she really so far beyond reason that she’d keep dragging him with her?

He caught her eye and smiled, and all she could do to not burst into tears was return the gesture.

* * *

 

It was at night that the two were finally finished working, both more than adequately covered in dirt and sweat and, naturally, Fenris couldn’t resist teasing Hawke about the parts of her pale skin that had turned an aggressive red from the sunlight. The elf sat on a bench outside when the Champion finally came to join him, offering the bottle of wine she held in her hands.  
“Our payment for a day’s labor.” Fenris took the bottle gratefully, and took a swig. By the time he handed it back, Hesta was sitting flush against him.  
“So this is what you grew up doing?”

She nodded. She’d spent most of the day awash with nostalgia, mostly regarding a particularly aggressive chicken her father had nicknamed ‘falcon.’  
“I wouldn’t mind going back to this kind of life once … all this is over, you know. Maybe raise some cows, grow some vegetables.”

Hesta waited for a reply that never came. When she turned her head, Fenris was staring at her.  
“What?”  
There were a few more seconds of silence before he turned away from her, though even in the darkness of night she could make out a light smile on his face.  
“It would be interesting,” he said.  
Hesta smiled, and took another sip from the bottle before handing it over to him.  
“We could build a cottage on the base of Sundermount. I’ll teach you how to farm vegetables and you can help me wrangle local wildlife. No one will bother us and we can wave our canes at young people who trespass our stronghold.” Fenris’s laughter rumbled out of him at the idea.   
“When all this is over, Hawke. We can be vigilantes-gone-fugitive retired to farming.”

And for that, they’d have to stay together.

Fenris didn’t ask why she found his hand in the darkness and gripped it tight. He only gripped back.

 

 


End file.
